


Secret

by Entropyrose



Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Bottom Bucky Barnes, Butt Plugs, Cheating, Cock Cages, Cock Slapping, Consensual Violence, Dom!Frank Castle, Dom/sub Play, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Violence, Light Sadism, M/M, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Sexual Violence, Sounding, Urethral Play, Violence, top Frank Castle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 09:38:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8051350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entropyrose/pseuds/Entropyrose
Summary: Bucky’s little secret isn’t a bad memory. Shit knows he has enough of those for seven lifetimes. It’s not an act of passion or a life he took or some stupid thing he said one night after too many beers. No. It’s a feeling. A craving. A desire.





	Secret

**Author's Note:**

> If you feel I have forgotten a warning, please say so in the comments. This fic contains explicit sexual acts, acts of violence, sadism, bloody violence, etc. This is definitely NOT fluff. Please hit the back button if you are easily offended by such things. Thank you. Much love <3

_“On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?”_

_\--Meatloaf_

 

Everyone has their dirty little secret. You know the one. The one that you pretend not to have, hidden away somewhere in the back catalogues of your mind, next to the broken-down boxes of dirty magazines and the stash of partially consumed liquor bottles. That one little secret that pokes its head around the corner and stares at you with black eyes while you swallow hard and force a smile so that your friends think everything is okay, that nothing is bothering you. They think they have accepted the absolute worst of who you are. That they know all there is to know. And they’re almost right, these people to whom you have bared your very soul…But. Not. Quite.

Because Jesus-God, if they knew…

So you pretend to forget and go on with your life as if that dark flicker isn’t licking your heels at every step, as if it isn’t taunting you, as if it isn’t beckoning you. As if it hasn’t already climbed in through the back of your skull and made a nest out of your brain. Like it isn’t burning you alive and turning the edges of your soul a nice crispy charcoal-black so charred you can smell the sulfur.

But no. It isn’t there. It never happened. You are a good person, hell maybe even normal. As if normal people do what you do, think how you think. All a defiant act against your true nature, because if the secret ever stepped into the light---and believe me, it’s played near the edge on more than a few occasions---life as you know it would never be the same.

Bucky’s little secret isn’t a bad memory. Shit knows he has enough of those for seven lifetimes. It’s not an act of passion or a life he took or some stupid thing he said one night after too many beers. No. It’s a feeling. A craving. A desire. _Whateverthefuck_ you call something that is so intense, so visceral, that it consumes his thoughts and threatens to destroy it  that if he ignores it, it just gets worse.

It is not a nice secret. Not nice as say, a good clean homicide or the memory of some embarrassing event that happened.

For a long while, he thought he was alone in it, too. That there wasn’t anybody— _anybody—_ as fucked in the head as he was. You see, this kind of secret…this kind of need…requires a partner. Someone deranged enough to play along because you can’t just put a fucking Craigslist add out there and _find_ someone like that without alerting the authorities.

Bucky hadn’t known it at the time, but the secret was like scent that followed him around, some sort of programmed code that sent up a fucking distress signal because he _needed it_ \----needed to get it out, to work it through, to feed the black-eyed demon just so he could survive—so he could cope----be fucking normal, at least most of the time. And he must have been the luckiest bastard alive. Because there was one other person. One person in the world that saw that flair shooting up in the sky, took a big whiff of the ash and the smoke and the shit, saw the blinding light of the orange tail as it streaked up into the night and said _YES._ Because he was alone, too, and his secret had been creeping up his spine, eating into his brain and chewing on the matter for way too fucking long.

_YES._

The raspy clunk of a garage door sliding open sends a shock through him, jolting him into consciousness. One of his eyes is swollen shut. It won’t stay that way for long, he knows, but the throb of his eyeball pressing against the puffy lid is playing havoc with his senses, peeling away the protective pain-blocking layers of his psyche, the ones that were driven into him time and time again. In his mouth is the warm tang of blood as he flicks his tongue out over the long red stripe on his lip.

“Wakey, wakey, cupcake,” The gravely voice mocks.

Bucky strains against the chains that suspend his hands along the cool concrete wall. They aren’t weapons-grade, and Bucky could crush them into dust with just a squeeze, so he is careful to play the part and jerk against them in soft, smooth motions, his fingers fluttering over the cold links. He puts a hash-mark on the list in his brain and on it, scrolls, 'get weapons-grade vibranium cuffs'. “Where did you go?” Bucky’s voice is soft, unassuming, and it comes out lithe and feathery, just like he wants. He works up a little saliva in his mouth and swallows hard.

“...out.”

 The man in the black blazer doesn’t extrapolate, so that is all Bucky is getting, and he’d better fucking be happy with it. He tugs a little at the chains as the door slides shut, shifting his weight against the wall, suddenly becoming aware of his lack of clothes. The cool blast of air sends a shiver through what flesh remains in his left shoulder—because the metal arm is cool and smooth and always fifteen degrees colder than his insides. His belly starts to ebb to his soft, anticipating breaths as Frank approaches.

His calloused hands ripple down his chest and belly, slipping between Bucky’s legs and parting them with a satistfactory grunt. Bucky watches Frank’s brown eyes as they inspect the work he left behind—as if he were looking over an engine laid open—guts all around. There, cradled against the soft flesh of his thighs, a platinum cock cage glints in the dim light of the garage. Bucky winces.

“You been good for me?” Frank cocks his head to one side, the tip of his nose grazing the lump in Bucky’s throat.

“Yes,” he whispers. He swallows again but finds his throat has gone bone-dry.

Frank turns the cage slightly, fingering one of Bucky’s testicles, tugging at the supple flesh that juts out between the metal loops. Bucky’s mouth drops open and a surge of pleasure races through him, arching his back, leaning away from the cold stone wall and into the touch. Frank’s lips are hovering centimeters from his now, not that Bucky is measuring. He might as well be a hundred feet away—it’s not enough, and Bucky lets out a frustrated whimper.

“HEY.” The teasing tug turns into a downward jolt, and Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut as he stifles a little squeak. The pleasure scatters, leaving panic and pain stabbing into him as he squirms away from the touch. It’s no good--the wall is there to stop him from escaping. “Did I ask you something?”

Bucky shakes his head wildly.

“So don’t fucking talk,” Frank rasps. He slaps the cock-cage for good measure before clamping down on it again and Bucky cries out, biting his lip to self-inflict, in hopes that he will gain some of Frank's sympathy--that Frank will see that he is trying—trying to be good, to not make a sound—and it works. Frank’s eyes flash, but the intensity fades quickly, and he releases Bucky’s throbbing, helpless cock.

Bucky lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in and his body sags against the chains.

The gentle, soft touches return and Bucky feels the pleasure warming him, his muscles releasing their tension and his butt unclenching against the sensation. His mouth parts again, slowly this time, releasing a puff of breath, careful not to let it out too loudly. “Less’ee,” Frank mutters, thumbing the small padlock that secures Bucky’s cock, pathetic and flaccid. Bucky catches the glint of a small key and has to swallow his excitement. “You want out, soldier?”

Frank asked him a question, so Bucky speaks without hesitation. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Frank’s eyes are practically glittering. Bucky yearns for that moment—the moment when Frank just about loses it and it’s not a game anymore because neither one of them can contain themselves long enough to keep playing.

 Frank’s mouth is soft, but the kiss is rough—his full lips bearing down upon Bucky’s, gnawing on his bottom lip and lapping up the inside as he flattens Bucky to the wall and Bucky can feel the entirety of his length pressing against the jean material of Frank’s pants. 

And holy hell is Frank big. Their hips together, Bucky can feel the head of Frank’s cock pressing against his mid-inner thigh and he shudders. Frank isn’t nice with it, and Bucky can feel his dick twitch in response, locked inside its silver prison and aching to be free. Frank’s hands work diligently, expertly, as if disarming a pistol. The lock slides off and Bucky wiggles his hips in response. Frank shoves him back against the wall so hard the concrete scrapes against Bucky’s round ass-cheeks. There is no worry about making noise this time—Frank’s mouth is covering Bucky’s and he can barely breathe let alone let a cry escape.

“You WAIT,” he hisses. Frank’s voice is gravely, dark. He is on the precipice staring down into that long, black abyss, and Bucky knows it because he feels that same way. He bucks against his chains, for real this time and tears off the kiss with a jerk of his head, his mercurial eyes burning into Frank’s.

“Careful,” he warns.

Frank’s stare only deepens and he cocks his head to the side. “You came to me, remember.”

Bucky does remember. He remembers Frank being dragged into the Raft a few days after Bucky had arrived—with the blank stare and clinical precision indicative of a soldier that had clearly lost his soul.

The two had exchanged glances through the glass walls of their prison in silent solidarity. Bucky recalled the magnetic pull of his dark brown eyes and the defiant expression—the one that said he wasn’t sorry and that he wasn’t about to change. Bucky remembers being pulled into the yard, three metal brackets surrounding his wrists, made out of the kind of shit Bucky couldn’t break—surrounded by convicts and criminals and anybody stupid enough to pick a fight—remembers the nod from the shaven soldier across the room, that one show of solidarity. And the blood and the bodies afterwards.

“I could break you,” Bucky reminds him. Both of them are still panting all over each other. Frank is as hard as a rock and is showing no sign of backing off any time soon.

“Aww, gee, I’m sorry.” A sneer crosses his face and he balls Bucky’s soft brown hair into his fists, planting his hands on either side of him on the wall. “We supposed to be pettin’ puppies and braiding each other’s hair and shit?” His mouth levels with Bucky’s, his tongue swirling over the blood on his bottom lip that must have broken free in the tussle. He bites on it, lavishes his taste and his scent all over Bucky, their mouths moving together hungrily. Frank begins to moan, rutting in between Bucky’s legs, against the smooth cage that keeps Bucky’s manhood trapped and pathetic and lifeless. “Is this what you want?,” he breathes, “huh? You want it slow, like this?” He nibbles on the corner of his mouth for effect, his tongue wide and wet and playing against the edge, wiggling inside. Bucky lets out a whimper, shifting his weight and leaning away from the wall, his legs suddenly losing their strength. “This how your precious Captain does it?”

Bucky stiffens. He pulls away slowly, breaking off the kiss, but Frank busies himself with Bucky’s neck, his shoulders, his wide chest and the smooth, hairless glow of his skin stretching over plump muscle.

“You like his soft caresses?” Frank is down on his knees now, in front of Bucky, lathering the little cock cage with is tongue. "Huh? Does your bashful blond boyfriend play cute with your throbbing cock?"

“Mmmh…” Bucky tosses his head to one side, burying his face in his hair with a deep wince and trying to hide the heat he feels rising to his cheeks. “You don’t know—“

“Think I do,” Frank teases, setting his teeth down on the cage. Bucky jumps, the slight pinch of his tender skin between Frank’s mouth and the smooth metal trap sending a shockwave right through him. Frank fingers the hole left by the padlock and Bucky whines helplessly.

“Please…” he lets out a shuddering breath and snaps the metal restraints against the cement wall.

He cannot let the guilt sink in—he has to overcome it, either that or push it down. Steve would never be able to do these things to him, to treat him so harshly, to tease him and toy with him and beat him like a punching bag. No. Stevie is his best guy, his angel, his Cap. He couldn’t and wouldn’t want Steve to be like this—like the man kneeling before him with his mouth wrapped around his limp, trapped dick.

Frank’s hands go around to his ass. He grips the two soft mounds and shoves a few fingers between them, drawing circles around the rim of the plug that is sunk deep into Bucky’s hole, pulling at the little chain that drops down from the end and connects to a small trinket at the end of his dick. Bucky is sobbing, now, struggling to stand. His arms sag against the restraints and he jumps forward in an attempt to keep upright.

“No good,” Frank spits the metal-and-flesh cock out of his mouth and stands up, leaving Bucky in a panting, shivering heap on the wall. “You pushed it out some.”

“I’m—I’m sorry—“ Bucky clings to the chains, his legs burning.

“Did I ask you a question?,” Frank barks and his fist flies across Bucky’s face. The eye is too swollen to sting much so it just bobbles in and out of the socket and broken blood vessels spatter red ink on his right cheek. There is no serum pumping through that fist—just raw human rage and a lifetime of military training. And something else. Bucky can’t put his finger on it, though.

The chains are loosened suddenly and Bucky drops to the floor, scraping his knees on the metal grate underneath him.

The first few times they did it, this is where Frank would pause. He would come over with a clean, wet towel and pat Bucky’s eyebrow and ask him if he was okay. Bucky would stop the game right then and there—Frank couldn’t play like that. He had to let it fly. All that anger, all that pent up darkness that he was supposed to *pretend* to do out of necessity. He would get down on the floor with Bucky, searching his eyes for the answers, pressing that fucking limp-ass towel to his cheek and giving him that same fucking doe-eyed look that Steve gave him every time he so much as stubbed a toe. “You okay, Buck?”  Fuck that. Frank had to be serious about this. Bucky had no use for a half-measure.

Frank has learned, since then. Hell, he has even come to like it. Kicking the shit out of someone who refuses to stay down. Out of someone who wants it. Who fucking _begs_ for it. Who needs it as bad as he does.

Frank stalks around him and Bucky’s eyes follow the sweeping circles he makes with his muddy combat boots. Bucky spits out a little blood and grins. “That all you got?” He is rewarded with a steel-toe sailing into his side and gasps when he hears the crack. Heat singes his ribs and scatters his thoughts. He cradles his ribs with one hand even though the kick has sent him sprawling to the floor, and he feels a strange sort of satisfaction even as he struggles for breath.

“You’re a fucking sick little cunt, you know that?”

“Mhh…” Bucky rolls to one side, rising to his knees, his forgotten cock still swinging from the cage that binds it between his shaking legs.

Frank rips the plug out as Bucky doubles over, lube and lotion and semen from this morning’s session spilling out and into the grate on the floor. “Get up.”

Bucky complies even as his leg muscles scream at him to stay down. He clasps the unlocked cock cage, his thumb scaling over the little loop that holds it together. He cries out at the heavy weight of the plug swinging from its chain, still attached to the trinket that peeks out from the slit of his dick. Frank’s hands slide approvingly over Bucky’s sculpted body, licking his lips absentmindedly. He cups the plug in his hand and Bucky sighs in relief. “Take it off,” Frank commands.

Bucky offers a confused look, his thumb still hesitating over the lock-loop. At least with his flesh fingers curling around the cage the metal is warming up.

But Frank’s gaze is locked on the sight of Bucky straining against the metal. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I wanna see you.”

Gingerly, Bucky flips the cage open and his dick flies out, stiff and hot and he feels like if he so much as touches himself he is going to go off, and he knows that would piss Frank off royally. He lets out a gasp as his dick uncurls from the bindings and throbs upward. The little beaded trinket embedded in his urethra doesn’t allow for any fluid to escape, and Bucky can feel his poor, backed-up balls aching for release.

“God, Bucky, you are beautiful.” Frank leans in, all whispers and bulky muscle, wrapping his arms around Bucky and Bucky lets him, because Frank is suddenly the only thing holding him up. Frank cups his face, one hand minding the plug still attached to his body, kissing him slowly, giving it an experimental tug and sighing when Bucky practically squeals. The cage clatters down to the plug, suspended on the single chain still leading to his dick, sending a ribbing vibration right through it. Bucky’s head goes back and Frank devours his throat, his teeth finding Bucky’s pulse and biting down mildly.

“Please…” Bucky whimpers.

“No, no, no, solider.  I know you too well.” Frank’s touch is soft but authoritative, and he slides the cage and the plug into the pocket of his jeans and leads Bucky carefully to the shop table in the corner of the garage. Frank pushes a desk lamp out of the way and sweeps his arm across, scattering bolts and ammo and gun-parts everywhere.

Bucky’s face still stings as Frank sweeps both hands under his hips and slams his ass to the table. Frank switches between rutting against Bucky’s spread thighs and working feverishly to release his aching dick from their denim prison. He springs free, slicking himself with the warm, wet mess between Bucky’s ass cheeks before pushing into his aching little hole.

It’s been a few weeks since Bucky has been able to escape the Avengers Tower and slip down into the cracks of the brick wall he’s built around himself. It involves adjustment;  Frank’s size and shape fills the emptiness left by the plug and it’s like night and day compared to Steve’s gentle, almost-too-soft-lovemaking. Steve is more girthy, with a subtle up-curve that Bucky loves to bend into and he had already felt himself forming back into that familiar shape since the session with Frank this morning.

Now, there is a cock the size of a fist hammering his insides straight in, stretching him further than the plug, the bulbous head rutting up against his prostate until he is sobbing into Frank’s shoulder. He wraps his arms around his knotted back muscles and drags his nails downward. Frank has some healing abilities—like the kind that allow him to get shot execution-style and wake up from a coma whistling Dixie three days later. But the scars, they always stay. Bucky plans on being a part of that and revels in the long hiss Frank produces as the blood trickles down.

Frank grips the shelf above his heads and hits Bucky so fast that he stops breathing, just letting his mouth hang open stupidly, brown hair flying across his sweat-spattered back, the little chain embedded in his dick chiming along with each thrust.

Frank slows, his hand dipping between Bucky’s legs and Bucky whimpers, eagerly opening up for him as Frank continues moving in and out of him. “Want this out?” He teasingly tugs at the chain and Bucky comes forward, his dick so achy it’s purple. Frank grasps the trinket, swirling it in his fingers, making  Bucky groan. “Still…ssshhhh….still…..” He slides the trinket out, revealing the stem of the metal sound, then pushes it back in with a cruel grin.

A tear rolls out of Bucky’s good eye and trickles down his cheek. Frank begins a rhythm—pulling out with his dick as he pulls the sound out, sliding it back in when he shoves in, leaving Bucky gasping for air, every muscle taught, every limb distorted in agony. “Gonna come for me?” Frank switches hands so he can stroke Bucky’s raw, sensitive shaft. “Gonna spill it out on me?”

“Yes—“, Bucky gasps against Frank's mouth.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir—uhhh—!” Bucky’s back arches, his dick giving out like a sparkler on the 4th of July as the sound comes all the way out and Frank gives him a few rough squeezes. Bucky’s muscles collapse around Frank, who lets out a guttural growl as he gives Bucky’s ass a few last shoves and buries himself to the hilt inside his hole as he spasms.

Frank comes with his face buried in Bucky’s chest, one of Bucky’s nipples clenched between his teeth, convulsing as he spills into him. They collapse together, Bucky still clinging to Frank for support, both catching their breath and staring at opposite walls.

It’s going to take a night for the swelling in Bucky’s eye to go down and for the marks to disappear. They use the car wash sprayer on low and rinse off in silence. Bucky towels off and grabs a fresh outfit from his duffel bag, and Frank brings a few beers up to the rooftop and they sit on ammo crates and watch the sun fade.

Frank takes a long swig and glances over at Bucky who’s not looking back. He is looking off into the smoggy New York horizon, his face shadowed by his gray hoodie, brown tendrils of hair spilling out. They rarely speak after a session. That’s not what it’s about. They aren’t lovers, or friends or even teammates.

In the back of his mind, Bucky knows this is probably uncomfortable for Frank. Because as much as “The Punisher” would like to believe differently, he is not lost like Bucky is. Not the way Bucky is.

They share the same need—whatever the hell you’d call it. A penchant for violence. The need for the spilling of blood. For Bucky, it was something else, too.

 

...maybe that was a secret kept even from him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
